Someday My Ship Will Come In
by The.Pelvic.Thrust
Summary: Some say it's lonely at the top. What if you fell in love with someone who you knew could never be yours? Spot and an OC. [Written entirely by: Ink][Rated T for later chapters.]
1. Setting Sail

**Disclaimer: Disney created Newsies. Disney owns Newsies. Kenny Ortega embellished Newsies with pelvic thrusts. Obsessive people such as myself write fanfiction. I think that about covers it. Good, yes?**

**A/N: _Spot'sStepDancer_, aka my good friend Amanda, owns the name "Brigitte Brady", yet I own all of her personality traits and appearance. I also own Flash, Finn, and Bottlecap…whom you shall meet as you read on. As a side note, this story was written entirely by Ink even though this account belongs to Ink, Shake, and Ace equally. Please do enjoy!**

Someday My Ship Will Come In

Chapter 1 "_Setting Sail"_

By: The.Pelvic.Thrust (Only Ink.)

It was hot…no, it was mind-bogglingly, skin-meltingly, horrifyingly sweltering. Because New York City could follow whatever pattern it wanted when it came to weather, and there was nothing that any of its inhabitants could do but to take off or layer on articles of clothing throughout the day. Today it was take off, obviously, with the harsh orb in the sky beating down on the Brooklyn newsboys as they jumped off and on the docks, swam lazily, and swam competitively. That was one of the high points of living in Brooklyn despite the somewhat vulgar manner of the lower class citizens…the harbor, and what a gorgeous harbor it was. The pride of New York. Ships with masts taller than the most monstrous buildings on land, sparkling depths of water that stretched father than the eye could see, and the classic hustle and bustle that personified New York up and down the winding mazes of docks.

"Hot day ain't it?"

"Yeah, Finn. Real hot." A strong Brooklyn accent rolled off the tongue of a slightly undersized eighteen-year-old who sat atop one of his great many perches with an air of superiority about him that was revered by all those in his presence. Even his name set fear and respect in the voice of anyone who uttered it. Everyone knew Spot Conlon…you couldn't live a day on the streets of New York City without hearing those two words. In a sense, Spot was Brooklyn; he was rough around the edges, somewhat dark and mysterious, he had his good parts and his bad, he was feared as much as he was respected, he somehow happened to know anything and everything going on in all of the city, and…his eyes always seemed to mirror the color of the harbor water at that exact moment.

At the current time, Spot was seated on a barrel atop a small platform raised five or six feet above the rest of the dock. It was built many years ago by the _New York Dock Association_ for a sailor to sit on to view and document arriving and departing ships. As the years rolled by, it fell into disuse when a taller outlook point was built away from this older dock and closer to the main shipping area. Now Spot added this to his large grouping of perches and sat above all of the Brooklyn newsboys with pride. The platform was surrounded by a strong wooden railing, and large stacks of crates and barrels acted as a makeshift staircase with nets and rusty fishing supplies cascading from them. Only Spot used the ladder on the side of it…it wasn't a rule, it was just…known, like many things when it came to Spot Conlon. He had Brooklyn at the tip of his cane, so to speak.

"Got any word on Flash yet?"

"Nope, last Bottlecap heard was dat he's been slumin' 'round Queens." Finn pulled up a barrel next to Spot and wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Betta deah 'en heah, right?"

"Betta noweah." Spot removed his cap and ruffled his light brown hair, making it stick up awkwardly in places. He squinted through the harsh sun at Finn, sitting back to let his head rest on the barrel behind him. All of the buttons on his shirt were undone as it blew in the rare breeze, his sleeves were rolled past his elbows, and his crimson suspenders hung in disuse at his sides. Finn nodded at Spot's words and pulled his striped shirt back on, letting his sunburned back rejoice in its cold dampness from the harbor water.

"You'se gonna swim, Conlon?" Finn flashed a cheeky grin at his friend, as he redid the three lowest buttons on his shirt.

Spot shook his head at Finn, strands of hair falling into his stormy eyes, and ran his hand over the cool metal of the top of his cane. "Do I evah?"

Finn nodded and grinned in a lopsided manner, standing and stretching his arms above his head. He slowly began to descend the piles of crates and barrels with one hand shielding his faded green eyes from the sun, when the sounds of slightly obnoxious yet virtually harmless and joking whistles and catcalls erupted around the docks. The object of these reactions? An angel.

Or at least she was what Spot believed to be the closest being to one that he'd ever laid eyes upon. Everything about her was flawless. She looked to be about his own age with shining copper curls pinned low on her head and spilling from underneath a while sunhat tied around her neck with a thick, light green satin ribbon, small tendrils peeking out to frame her face. Her face…it was like a painting, that was the only description to do it justice. Everything from her smooth porcelain skin to her warm hazel eyes could not possibly have been more perfect, it was as if the scorching weather had no affect on her whatsoever. Unlike other girls who often walked by the docks from the academy down the street, this one did not flaunt herself nor did she bow her head low and act as though the newsboys did not exist. She tilted her head toward them as she walked, a half smile present across her lips and a look of fascination shining in her eyes.

Spot shook his head quickly, knocking him out of his trace-like state as she turned her gaze away from the docks and back to the road upon which she was walking. "Hey, control ya selves!" he yelled, banging the bottom of his cane loudly against the floor of the platform as was tradition for the situation. He grinned and chuckled with the majority of the newsboys who were used to the customary action, and rested his back against the barrel behind him once more, overlooking the others as they returned to their previous activities. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the mysterious redhead as she turned a corner and her light green skirt swished out of view.

"She's a pretty one huh?"

"Don't you got somewheah ta be, Finn?"

"…Nah. Not really." Finn replied as he turned around on the barrel that he was currently balancing on and faced Spot. "You do know who dat was, right?"

"Should I?"

"Well, she's just the only child of Benedict Brady…"

"Brady, as inthe infamous Brady Papermill in Queens?" Spot arched an eyebrow and slouched forward.

"Yeah, dat one…she's been betrothed since da day she was born-"

"Ta who?"

"Why are ya askin' me? Do I look like I know everythin'? You're Spot Conlon…_King _of Brooklyn, shouldn't ya know? Anyway, he's probably some rich idiot whose fadda owns…like, New York, or somethin'. " he finished mockingly with wild hand gestures and a large smirk planted across his face.

Spot missed the sarcasm in Finn's voice and ran a hand though his hair, serving no purpose other than to make the light brown waves sit even more awkwardly atop his head.

"There's something about her…" He mumbled, frustration apparent in his tone.

"I'm sorry, Spotty-boy, I didn't catch dat…I never thought dat you of all people could be turned soft by a goil."

"Soft, whaddaya talkin' about? I can't express interest in da female population anymore, is dat it?"

"Yeah. You got it, can't get nothin' past ya."

"I just…she seems different, ya know? Not like…"

"Other goils, right? Hate ta break it ta ya, but dat's probably because people like dat don't live in Brooklyn. No one like dat gives two pennies 'bout people like us." Finn let out a low laugh, turning serious all of a sudden. "As a friend, Spot, I just gotta tell ya this. You practically own Brooklyn, everyone knows you…people would give anythin' to get just a taste of the power you have…just a minute in your presence. Yet you want da one who wouldn't look your way if ya got hit by a carriage."

"Who's sayin' I'm gonna be stupid enough to run into a carriage?"

"You know…you could have just about any goil in the entire city if you wanted, but ya just had to choose da one ya can't have. Real nice," Finn shook his head slowly, and turned around, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and descending the makeshift staircase.

Spot groaned and slammed his back against the barrel behind him, causing it to fall and roll off the platform only to crash onto the dock below. No one noticed.

**A/N: So…I hoped you all enjoyed the first chapter, and you may expect some more in about a week or sooner, but only sooner if there is interest. Please do review with whatever your opinion is, just for my own personal reference. Luff for all and I look forward to continuing! **


	2. Exploring Unfamiliar Waters

**Disclaimer: Newsies belongs to Disney. Fanfiction belongs to Me. I think that about covers it. Don't sue me…I spend all of my money buying plain t-shirts and iron-on paper to make spiffy Newsies-themed shirts.**

**A/N: I know I said it would be about a week…but I couldn't control myself and had to update sooner. The plot consumes my mind. I am in love with this fic. Also, a special thanks to _Buttons14_ for the incredibly sweet review. You make me so happy…and yes, the first paragraph, and first chappie for that matter, is surprisingly difficult to write.**

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Someday My Ship Will Come In

Chapter 2 "_Exploring Unfamiliar Waters_"

By: The.Pelvic.Thrust (Only Ink.)

"A hundred…" Spot said monotonously as he stepped closer to the portly bald man behind the main desk at the New York Times Distribution Office, if one could call such a place an "office". He yawned and blinked his eyes several times before placing a rusty half dollar coin on the damp desk in front of him and pushing it forward with the tip of his cane. The slowly disintegrating slab of wood before him served as a desk and was made of many different types of wood nailed together and never painted, but discolored by the salty breeze from the harbor. Most noticeably, there were strangely shaped gouges in the surface and an odd slimy green substance grew in scattered areas.

"Mornin' Conlon," the man replied gruffly, before nodding to an unkempt young fellow just emerging from under the desk. He slammed down a large stack of newspapers a few feet down, and smiled at Spot as he retrieved them seconds later. With a customary tip of his cap, Spot strode lazily out of the decrepit shack, and began to walk down the small dirt path leading past the paper mill and the harbor to the center of Brooklyn.

"Ya ain't plannin' on makin' a detour somewheah 'round da academy, are ya?" Finn questioned with a smirk, as he jogged to catch up with Spot, papers held loosely under his arm.

"Now, tell me, Finn…what makes ya think I would evah do somethin' like dat?" Spot said lazily with a small smirk up-turning one corner of his lips. He effortlessly slid his ebony colored cane into one of the frayed belt loops of his trousers, and lifted his papers to rest on his shoulder, shoving his empty hand into his pocket.

Finn grinned in response and ruffled his disheveled dark brown hair, easily falling into step with Spot's long strides. "I dunno, Spotty-boy. Good scenery 'round those parts, or so somebody told me…" He finished mockingly, retrieving a cigarette and a miniscule box of matches from his pocket.

"_Scenery_? So dat's how we refer to 'em now, huh?" Scoffing, Spot took his stack of papers and hit the back of Finn's head with them jokingly, just as he was holding an ignited match to the tip of his cigarette.

"Hey, watch it! Guy wit a…dangerous _flamin'_ object heah…" he mumbled through the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips, as he swayed slightly from the impact of the papers to his head.

Chuckling, the two newsboys emerged through a small amount of trees, unusual to the cityscape of Brooklyn, and made their separate ways to sell the papers that they were carrying. Finn nodded as he turned a corner toward an outdoor boxing ring close by, while Spot strode slowly, dragging out each step until Finn was out of sight. He eyed his surroundings quickly before making up his mind to turn up a hilly street leading to the upper area of town. Smiling to himself, Spot brushed a tuft of sandy brown hair out of his eyes, and raised his eyebrows at the stately brick buildings slowly becoming visible over the horizon.

It was a good two hours later when Spot had finally finished selling the majority of his papers around the wealthier side of town, about a half an hour longer that it usually took him in his daily selling areas. He supposed that he had to be procrastinating…every time he caught a glimpse of the large stone academy, he made a quick excuse to himself that he just had to sell ten more papers and then he would make his way over to the building. Well, ten papers became forty…and forty became eighty, and soon he was left with merely four tucked easily under his arm.

At least the weather was substantially more pleasant than the suffocating heat and stagnant humid air of yesterday, and he had the cool harbor breeze to thank for that. Spot judged that it had to be at least noon by now due to the empty feeling in his stomach, and Finn would be wondering why he wasn't at _The Rusty Nail_ for their usual lunch. A bit farther down the cobblestone street, he noticed a large wooden sign advertising a small restaurant, and decided to go in for a quick drink to ease his parched throat and then head back to the docks.

He strode quickly to the eatery, and pushed the heavy, carved oak door open gingerly. A thin cloud of smoke hung over the candle-lit room which housed about ten velvet booths around polished wooden tables, and on the far side was a long bar with glittering glasses and hundreds of bottles. The place had an air of rough elegance, and Spot noticed that only four or five of the booths were occupied and the people in them were laughing, playing cards, and chatting over cups of coffee or plates of food. He slid easily into a rather small booth around the center of the restaurant with several large candles in the middle of the table. Taking off his tweed cap, he ran a hand roughly though his hair and scanned the room.

"Vat'll it be, cherie?" questioned the distinct French accent of a middle-aged woman dressed in a waitress uniform. Her pen was poised above a crisp pad of paper ready to take his order, and her mouth remained slightly stern while her eyes smiled at him through her spectacles.

"Uh, just an ale, thanks…" Spot replied rather quickly, as he was thrown off-guard by the boisterous laughter coming from the main door of the restaurant which had just opened, admitting a group of five teenage girls. He watched intently as they moved toward a large booth across the restaurant, varying hues of long pastel skirts and crisp white blouses bunching up slightly as they slid into the velvet seats one after another.

Among the group of eye-catching strangers, a familiar head of silky red curls caught his eye, the illustrious color illuminated further by the soft candlelight. Spot looked on in wonder as she reached a delicate hand up to undo the silk coral ribbon of her white sunhat and bring it carefully off of her head to rest on the table top. As soon as the object brushed against the surface, someone must have said something rather amusing yet again, for her hazel eyes shut once more and she grinned with laughter, throwing her head back. Not that he could hear anything at the moment of barely to focus on anything else. It was truly captivating. "_Beautiful_…"

"Ah, merci! You like my 'air? I jus' got eet done zis morning," the waitress said with a blinding grin, ruffling his hair, and putting his ale on the table in front of him. She winked and sauntered off, leaving Spot with a rather horrified expression as he hardly knew that he had actually spoken out loud let alone that someone was within hearing range of his mumble.

Rolling his eyes, Spot took a generous sip of the drink in front of him and began to leaf though one of his extra papers that he had placed on the seat next to him when he came in. He ignored the tingling sensation as the large gulp of liquid slid down his throat and focused on an article about a new train station opening in Midtown. About halfway though reading the article, he heard a bit of soft, musical laughter that seemed as if the person was both near him and attempting to suppress their mirth.

Lazily, Spot pulled his eyes away from the small print and willed them to travel across the table and rest upon the pale coral fabric of a skirt. He swallowed subconsciously and his heart skipped a beat as his eyes continued past an ivory blouse with pearl buttons and smooth porcelain skin, to finally stop at a pair of rather amused hazel eyes.

"Can I have one?" she asked cheerfully with a pleasant Irish accent, removing one hand from behind her back to slide a shining copper penny slowly onto the table.

"One what?" Spot said as more of an exclamation than a question, as he was surprised to hear her voice…and directed at him, no less.

She placed a hand lightly over her mouth and giggled before replying, "A paper…" Her engaging voice was incredibly distracting to his logical train of thought along with the fact that she now bit her bottom lip with a small amount of nervousness.

"Oh, yeah…" He replied, a smile slowly creeping up his face as he reached down next to him to retrieve an unused paper. As he was bent over slightly, out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl in front of him turn around and motion for the table housing her group of friends to cease their laughter by placing a finger to her lips. When he handed the paper to her, she turned quickly back to face him and grinned.

"Well, dis is one fine bit 'a merchandise ya jus' bought yerself, Miss…"

"Brady…Brigitte Brady," she finished for him, delicately taking the paper from him and glancing quickly at her feet before returning her gaze to him and beaming. "Well, thanks…"

With her words, Brigitte turned on her heels and meandered back to her booth. Spot shook his head languidly after watching her take her seat, and quickly drained the glass in front of him.

" _Brady…Brigitte Brady…_" 

**A/N: Well, I really hope you found this chapter the least bit amusing, and remember that no matter what you opinion is, I'd love to hear it in a review. The reviews honestly do affect the quality, length, and frequency of my updates. I adore all who are reading this…you are amazing. **


	3. Drifting off Course

**Disclaimer: I own the plot and any of the character whose names you haven't heard before. Disney owns everything else. Blah. I'm not cool enough to own a whole bunch of hot teenage guys. **

**A/N: FFnet apparently banned shout-outs, so I'd just like to thank all those who reviewed…your support makes me oh-so-very happy. **

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Someday My Ship Will Come In

Chapter 3 "_Drifting off Course_"

By: The.Pelvic.Thrust (Only Ink.)

"So…I'm guessin' ya took dat detour, eh Spotty-boy?"

"Huh?" Spot replied after a rather lengthy pause during which he was staring aimlessly over the harbor from atop his perch. Finn rolled his eyes at the inquiry and pulled up an abandoned crate next to him, letting the silence expand as he followed Spot's eyes over the ships departing into the setting sun.

"You went uptown didn't ya?"

"What's it ta you?"

Finn shrugged and leaned back against the small mound of barrels that Spot had claimed, ignoring the slight bitterness in the statement. "Well, some 'a da guys were wonderin' where you'se gone off ta. Thought you done somethin' stupid."

"Like what?"

"Dunno. Go aftah Flash without backup."

"I ain't that stupid."

Finn nodded, not wanting to press the situation further when it was plainly obvious that Spot had absolutely no intention of disclosing even the least bit of information. Just as the silence was about to drive him mad to the point where he was going to join the rest of the newsboys on the lower docks, Finn heard the faint creaking of old wood as Spot finally turned to face him.

"You'se was right."

"That ya done somethin' stupid?"

"Her name's Brigitte Brady."

At this point, Finn couldn't help the grin that spread across his face at the sensation of being correct. It was difficult to crack the outer shell of Spot, but after almost ten years of knowing him, Finn managed to have a fair grasp on his personality. This was one of those shining moments. "What's she like?" he asked tentatively.

Spot let out a large sigh after several moments of thought, crossing his arms with a certain defiance about him. "Like nothin' else…" With that, he swiftly descended the entirety of the perch and strode over to the Lodging House with the power that only he could manage to personify with his strong, deliberate strides.

---

"Hot day ain't it?"

"Yeah, Finn. Real hot."

"We've been havin'the same conversation ferthe past week," Finn muttered, shoving a clump of his damp hair out of his eyes and sitting on the crate that he'd just occupied the previous night. "Still ain't gettin' any less hot."

Spot nodded and rotated his body slightly, so that instead of staring over the harbor, his eyes scanned the lower docks and the nearby street.

"Time yet?"

"A couple 'a minutes…" Spot asserted without so much as glancing at his pocket watch. Like clockwork, within several moments time, a familiar head of red curls appeared around a corner slowly advancing toward the docks. With each step she came clearer in to view…her copper hair…the soft pink tinge on her cheeks, she stared forward unshaken by her surroundings. Everything about her seemed to sway in the ocean breeze…it was like watching night turn into day, everything brightened…the dingy, rough wood of the docks…the fading afternoon sky. Even the air felt cooler to the touch and smelled less of the fish being hauled in across the harbor and more of the fresh sea salt.

Despite the fact that Finn had been in the middle of some story, Spot stared forward wide-eyed then promptly stood and scuttled down the ladder.

"…so then I told 'em, I'se said _'You'se ain't takin' my sauerkraut'_-HEY! Where ya goin'? Didn't yer mudda evah teach ya nothin'?" The comment fell on deaf ears, as Spot was far too busy attempting to nonchalantly stroll over to the main road. "I see how it is…chase _her_!"

By the time Spot had finally passed through the lower docks, not without inquisitive stares from a good majority of the newsboys, and stepped onto the street, Brigitte was only several feet away. Brigitte Brady, smiling at him in her perfectly pressed blouse and flowing indigo skirt…always with her sunhat. Smiling at him…him in his torn charcoal trousers, faded blue shirt with unevenly rolled sleeves, and those unforgettable red suspenders.

One corner of his mouth upturned slightly as he watched her approach, his hand shoved lazily into his pocket. Running the other hand quickly through his haphazard hair, Spot nodded as she slowed her pace a few feet in front of him, several small textbooks clutched in her arms.

"Hello." Her reply was simple as she smiled and nodded politely, then breezed past him and continued walking at her normal brisk pace. Spot stood dumbfounded in her wake, blinking several times before jogging up next to her and matching her steps. Brigitte watched him out of the corner of her eye and let out a small laugh. "May I help you?"

"I was jus' about ta ask ya the same thing."

"What?"

"Well, ya must know how _dangerous_ da streets can be at dis time." Spot glanced over to his left where a group of five or six young children were playing hopscotch on the side of the road.

"Really now?" she inquired, matching his smirk with an eyebrow raise of her own.

"Yep."

"At three o'clock in the afternoon?"

"You bet. Anyway, I was goin' ta ask you if ya wanted the company of a gentleman on your walk, ya know, just in case."

"_Good idea_." Brigitte began, elongating each word sarcastically, "…if you see one, make sure to tell him all about me." Attempting to mask her amusement, she turned a corner down a shady street. Spot noticed that as they continued through the neighborhood, each house that they passed seemed to be significantly larger than the one before it. He had almost forgotten that streets such as this one actually existed in Brooklyn, the only part of New York City where you could be under a bridge with the most filthy circumstances one moment and then on a street with monstrous houses and laughing children the next.

He chuckled at her comment, still harmonizing his steps with hers. "So, do ya live in Brooklyn?"

"So we're friends now and you can just ask me whatever questions you want as if I did not just make several obvious blows to your curiosity?" Brigitte questioned with a loud laugh, glancing at him as she spoke.

"Can't get nothin' past ya. So do ya?"

As her giggles subsided, she turned back to him. "Do I what?"

"Live in Brooklyn."

"Oh…yes. I have all of my life."

"See, we already got somethin' in common." The two shared in a quick smile before resuming their concentration on the cobblestones under their feet. The silence was only accompanied by Brigitte who had begun to hum softly, kicking absentmindedly at the ground with each step.

"Do you have a name?" She finally asked after several minutes, turning back to face him with a small smile.

"Nah, not really."

"People normally catch your attention with a series of unidentifiable squawks and grunts, do they?"

Spot met her gaze and laughed, flicking several non-conforming strands of hair out of his eyes. "Spot Conlon." he answered finally. If it had been anyone else who had asked, he would have shared in a good chuckle with anyone nearby at the dense person who did not know who he was. Spot Conlon, _King_ of Brooklyn. But…it wasn't anyone, it was Brigitte Brady, and that made all the difference.

"Is that one of those ridiculous nicknames that your crowd seems to come up with for each other?"

"Nah. My parents named me."

"They honestly named you _Spot_?" Brigitte questioned, as if she didn't truly believe him. It was more of an interested inquiry than one meant to pry or degrade.

"Is it that hard ta believe?"

"No." She paused, and bit her lip thoughtfully. "I like it." Her simple words weren't directed to Spot, they were more of an observation, but amused him none the less. Silence blanketed the two once more as Spot took to staring at the ground with his thumbs through his suspenders, slouching slightly and kicking at a rock. Brigitte, on the other hand, walked at her full height with the posture that could only have been formed through lessons, fighting the grin that was threatening the corners of her lips.

"This is it." Brigitte revealed, stopping in front of a brick path winding through a uniformly cut lawn up to a serene white town house. She turned to face Spot, giving him a fleeting smile before down-casting her eyes and making her way up the path.

"See ya tomorrow, then?" Spot called up to her, from his position at the edge of the lawn, a hint of hope in his normally passive drawl.

"Maybe you will." She replied mischievously over her shoulder, well aware of the intense gaze upon her as she vanished through the front door and into a completely different reality.

**A/N: Whatever your opinion is, please do review. If you're an author, you know how much even a "This is good." reply means. Adoration for you all. **


	4. Tactful Navigation

**Disclaimer: -heavy breathing- I swear I only owned the _Newsies_ franchise for thirteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds! Please don't strike me again! Wow…**

**A/N: I apologize heavily for the wait. Will not happen again. I have been unimaginably busy with practice for my play…opening night is nine days away. I love you all who have reviewed so far, and I hope that this chappie doesn't disappoint. **

Someday My Ship Will Come In

Chapter 4 "_Tactful Navigation_"

By: The.Pelvic.Thrust (Only Ink.)

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"Did I miss 'er?"

"Yeah…she came by 'bout half hour ago."

"_Damn_…" Spot mumbled, as he shoved his hands into his pockets and strode solemnly down the fire escape of the lodging house and toward Finn who was currently hoisting himself out of the harbor and onto one of the lower docks. Kicking defiantly at a knothole in the abrasive wood, Spot waited expectantly for Finn to approach him.

"Hey, don't worry about it…ya only had…like, what? Two conversations…it ain't nothin' ta get all angry for." Finn gave him a small smile before viciously shaking the water out of his tousled hair, and then leaning against a thick wooden pole a few feet from the King of Brooklyn himself.

Spot looked unnaturally composed as he calmly slid the worn slingshot from one of his pockets. "I need ta break somethin'…"

Finn stared at the slingshot…then at Spot…and then back at the slingshot. "_Bottlecap_!"

"_What_, Finn?" A mousy boy in his early teens hollered in return, as he lowered a half-empty beer bottle from his lips and shifted his gaze to the caller at the opposite end of the dock.

"Spot wants ta _break_ somethin'!"

Bottlecap promptly nodded and placed his bottle on the barrel next to him, stepping several feet back. He barely flinched when the aforementioned bottle was skillfully shattered mere seconds later by a whizzing marble.

"Thanks, I needed that." Spot lowered the slingshot and let out a shallow breath, rotating his body so that he was facing Finn again.

"Hey, it's what I'm heah for," He replied, clapping Spot twice on the back with a wet hand and grinning before taking a running leap back into the water. A large splash echoed through the afternoon, the scene engulfed in laughter…save one lone figure wandering up the front steps of the lodging house, red suspenders sulking at his sides.

---

"Hot day ain't it?"

"Nah. Ain't too bad."

"That was unexpected." Finn raised his eyebrows and chuckled at the smirking individual slouching next to him atop his throne of crates and barrels.

"Thought I would mix it up a bit." Spot's eyes were slightly glazed over and he looked as though he hadn't blinked in ages, as if he was afraid that he would miss Brigitte if he dared to close his eyes.

"Here she comes…" Finn muttered after several minutes of silence, eyeing a white sun hat atop a head of fiery curls in the distance and turning to face Spot…no one was there. He shook his head and smiled as he saw a flash of red suspenders and their owner descend the ladder of the perch.

His timing wasn't quite right today considering that by the time he had walked about half the length of the docks, Brigitte had already reached the point where the docks and the road met, waved at him, and continued walking. Spot muttered a short string of expletives under his breath before breaking into a casual jog and joining her along the road several moments later.

"May I help you?"

"Thought ya might like some company." Spot breathed, smiling slightly and glancing tentatively at Brigitte who attempted to hide a smile of her own by staring determinedly at the road ahead.

"Are you planning on making this a habit, Mr. Conlon?"

"What would make ya think that, _Miss Brady_?"

"I-I just don't think it's a good idea." Her eyes traveled from the stately street ahead to her boots and she frowned slightly, chewing apprehensively on the corner of her bottom lip. Spot watched the change in her demeanor and faltered slightly. Was this what rejection felt like? What a new concept. He wanted to say something, something sarcastic…witty…biting, anything to possibly make her take back her previous statement.

"Oh." For once, the great Spot Conlon could not think of a non-monosyllabic thing to say, and it completely threw him off. He tugged absentmindedly at one of his belt loops, squinting through the sun at the scuffed toes of his shoes.

"_What_?" Brigitte inquired suddenly…obviously she had been taken aback by his reaction as well.

"Not a _good idea_…what's that supposed ta mean?" He muttered in reply, removing his hat and shoving it unceremoniously into his back pocket. The question was clearly an accusation and was followed by a good few moments of awkward silence before Brigitte fiddled with the burgundy bow securing her sun hat to her head and coughed quietly.

"Well…for all I know, you could be a thief…or-or a stalker…or _married_ or something…" she stuttered hastily, alternating between nervously glancing at Spot and her feet.

Spot let out a relieved breath and a trace of the classic Conlon smirk graced his lips as he locked his eyes on hers. "To stop your suspicions…I'm only a thief on Tuesdays, stalkin' surprisingly ain't my hobby of choice, and about bein' married…just no." It was his turn to be stunned as she threw her head back and let out the most incredible jovial laughter he had ever heard. It reminded him of the first time he had seen her laugh like that; it had been almost a week since that afternoon in the restaurant uptown. "Wait-why do you care about me bein' married?" He questioned cheekily.

"I don't."

"_Really_ now?"

"Yes. I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you, Spot Conlon."

"Ya should be thankful fer that." He slid his suspenders off of his shoulders and let them rest at his sides, contemplating where to go from there. "I want you ta know that I ain't looking fer nothin'…I just wanna keep you company and maybe get ta know ya better." Okay…so it was a half lie, he was looking for something, but he wasn't going to push his luck just when she was beginning to trust him.

Brigitte tinged pink as one corner of her lips tugged upwards. "I guess I could deal with that. I'm afraid that you'll find my life rather dull. I have nothing going on that would be of any interest to anyone." She smiled serenely, picking up her heels and leading the way down a familiar street which brought them only several minutes away from her home. The dismal smoke from the factories by the harbor contrasted against the tranquil treetops, dusting the clear afternoon sky with its darkness.

"Oh c'mon…what are ya talkin' about? I'm sure you're learnin' something in that big, fancy _academy_ 'a yours."

"Well…let's see. Right now, I'm taking History, Poetry, Advanced Writing, and Mathematics."

"That's easy enough. History is just about a bunch 'a old dead guys takin' land from each other. Poetry is a whole lot 'a rhyming words…writin' is like talkin'…'cept not really. An' math is a bunch 'a numbers and shapes and stuff." As Spot finished, he looked over at Brigitte with an innocent expression that obviously spoke of his pride at his earlier statements.

"How very profound of you Mr. Conlon. I'm afraid that there's a bit more to it than that."

"Teach me." Time seemed to slow to the pace of a slumbering heart beat as he locked his eyes on hers, Brigitte's expression matching his as he turned serious all of a sudden. The silence was deafening and unbearable, yet intoxicating and addicting. The longer it spanned, the more it begged to be broken yet at the same time yearned to keep its soundless perfection.

Brigitte opened her mouth as if she was going to reply, before she blinked her eyes quickly, realizing that they had stopped a few feet from her front yard. "We're here…" she managed lamely, fiddling with the leather schoolbooks in her arms and glancing back up at his expression which hadn't changed. "I've got etiquette class in a few minutes, but I'll tell you what. Every time I tell you something about me, you have to teach me something about the _Great Spot Conlon_, okay?" She smiled quickly and began to stroll up the front path.

"Like _what_? I'll tell ya now, there ain't nothin' interesting about me. I eat, sleep, and sell newspapers." He called up to her, mirroring her amused expression.

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment before coming to a definite decision. "The harbor. I want to see the harbor like you see it. I have no school tomorrow, so I'll meet you at the docks around noon." Brigitte gave him a final wave before disappearing through the front door. Spot's eyes traveled once more over the immaculately cut lawn and flawless shrubs dotting the sea of grass, before he decidedly retrieved a cigarette from his back pocket.

As he began his return journey to the lodging house with the ignited cigarette resting between his lips, he contemplated her words. _I want to see the harbor like you see it._ Running both hands through his hair, Spot rounded a corner and began to wonder how exactly he did see the harbor. He had never really thought about it before. It was just…his home…

---

Several timid knocks echoed through the small hotel room causing an unshaven boy of about nineteen to look up from the paper and pen in front of him and glare challengingly at the door. "Whaddya want?" he slurred loudly, his strong Brooklyn drawl combined with a subdued state of drunkenness melding the various syllables together.

"It's me." The hushed tone was eager on the other side as the handle twitched back and forth, rusted lock holding fast.

"Nah…it ain't me. I ain't out there…"

"Shut it ya drunken bastard an' let me in!"

"Now I definitely ain't lettin' ya in…" His voice trailed off slowly as he reached for the chipped bottle next to his elbow, took a long swig, and dropped his head to the desk top.

There was a deep sigh from the other side and several quick clicking noises as the knob shuddered furiously. Finally, the door jerked open, shaking in its frame as it hit one wall of the room and revealed a beanpole of a boy who strolled forward smirking and wielding a pocket knife. "They don't call me Lock fer nothin'…" he bragged, slamming the door behind him. This caused the lazy figure in the chair to jolt up and blink profusely as he swatted at the air in a motion to attempt to make the noise go away.

"Go _away_…"

"C'mon, Flash…this is just gettin' old." Lock chided, picking up the bottle and tossing it effortlessly out one of the open windows, hardly flinching as it crashed to the ground several stories below. "It's been over two years now…"

Flash's charcoal eyes smoldered with a mixture of hatred and anger, seeming to singe the wall ahead with the thought of the haunting memories. "It ain't my _fault_ that Brooklyn's full 'a dishonest bastards who worship whatever dumbass can climb a ladder an' sit on a platform."

"You're bitter…" remarked Lock lazily as he chewed at the nail of his middle finger and shuffled through the papers on Flash's desk with his free hand. "You ain't really in a place ta complain. Yer the one who screwed all of 'em over…"

"I ain't in the mood fer this."

"I got somethin' ta tell you that'll change yer mind…"

Flash raised his eyebrows at this. "Keep talkin' an' maybe I'll listen."

Lock flashed a toothy smile before continuing with growing vigor. "Spot ain't gonna be by the docks all day tomorrow…I heard Bottlecap an' Flash talkin'. Looks like he's goin' out fer the day or somethin'."

At the mention of Spot, Flash tensed and ground his teeth in disgust. "_So_?" he spat, crossing his arms menacingly over his broad chest as he leaned back in his chair.

"So…" Lock began, faltering slightly, "I think it's about time you paid Brooklyn a little visit."

"An' why the hell would I want to do that?"

The harshness of his tone caused Lock to cower slightly before answering tentatively. "Spot's the only one who ain't afraid of you. With him gone..."

Flash raised a fist as if he was about to render some part of Lock's body functionless, and then broke into a grin before clapping him roughly on the back. "Yer right. It's time I paid my boys a visit…"

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**A/N: I apologize again for the wait and I really hope that you enjoyed the chapter. Please do not hesitate to review and tell me what you think of Flash and Lock or the Spot and Brigitte scene. Honestly, I can only write with your input! I adore you all incredibly.**


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